


Like A Perfect Storm

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Humor, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: In Judoon Maximum Security, the Doctor has a visitor. A visitor who isn't going to stand for the Time Lady's unkempt state, and is determined to do something about it...
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89





	Like A Perfect Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Absolute silliness inspired by the new Revolution of the Daleks promo images, and Mandip's Instagram Stories.

Words are spoken.

Well, not what most people would call words; more like a collection of different short, sharp grunts, all delivered in an unusually aggressive manner that borders on the downright threatening. This would perhaps be alarming to those with a more delicate nature, but the woman listening to them is as far removed from delicate as it’s possible to be. Instead, she twists her mouth into a smirk as she considers the information being given to her, then tilts her head to the side and wonders how best to respond.

In the speaker’s own tongue would be polite; it’s not as though she _can’t_ speak it, but doing so would be effortful and hurt her throat in a manner that makes her shudder. There is also, of course, the slight chance of mispronunciation, and it would rather spoil her fun if a slip of the tongue were to cause any unfortunate outcomes and cost her what she’d travelled all this way to do. On the other hand, responding in her own tongue might make her appear spoilt and entitled; it signals clearly to the speaker that she doesn’t want to play by their rules, but actually, would that be so bad? To insist that they speak her language; to insist they contort their larynxes and mouths into the unfamiliar sounds and shapes of English? 

She knows that if the object of her attention were here, she’d be chastised for her views. There would be a lecture on space-colonialism and the human-centric approach, and possibly a brief lecture – if she’s lucky it would be brief, at any rate – on the rise and fall of the First Human Empire thanks to their own hubris, and that they’d assumed that the entire universe would meet them on their terms.

As it stands, however, she is alone. There is no one to tell her off, and no one to lecture her about the importance of cultural assimilation – which would be far easier with a translation circuit or two, but alas, she has no such technology to hand. 

Alone, and perhaps selfish, not that she much cares about the label. Adjectives are such arbitrary things; what’s a little selfishness, anyway? If it sets her on a more favourable path – one with a better outcome, or one on which she doesn’t end up dead – then perhaps selfishness can be excused.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she purrs, and witnesses the speaker’s rhinoceros-like visage flicker through several emotions before settling on a scowl, one hand coming to his chest and thumping a disc set into his armour. There’s a brief squeal of feedback, and she forces herself not to flinch as her words are played back with a tinny ring to them.

“Language, assimilated,” the Judoon growls in a gruff voice. “Earth English. You are sure that this is what you want?”

“I just said, didn’t I?” she rolls her eyes impatiently, resisting the urge to fold her arms across her chest like a child. “I’m sure. Let me see the prisoner.”

“Prisoner in bad shape.”

She feels a flash of panic then; what do they mean ‘in bad shape’? Is she harmed? Is she laying in a cell somewhere, battered and bruised? The thought of being presented with a beaten-up Time Lord, barely able to stand, makes her flinch. Perhaps her fear registers on her face, and perhaps her conversation partner is more astute to the facial expressions of humanoids than she is giving him credit for, because he speaks again.

“Not sick. Not wounded. Just… dirty.”

“Dirty?” she repeats with confusion, not understanding and wondering if his communication software is malfunctioning. “What do you mean ‘dirty’?”

“She is… unclean.”

“What…”

“We give facilities. This is Maximum Security. We treat prisoners in accordance with International Galactic Law. But she will not wash.”

“How long has she been here?”

“In calendar units of your species?”

“Yes.”

“Fifteen months, one week, and four days.”

She lets out a long whistle of bemused amazement, equal parts impressed and appalled. “Wow.”

“I do not understand.”

“She hasn’t washed for fifteen months?”

“And one week and four days.”

“Does she… smell?” she asks tactfully, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Given the uh… hygiene situation?”

“We do not approach the prisoners to check such matters.”

“Does she eat? Drink?”

“A little.”

“What does she do all day?”

“Sometimes she does exercises,” the speaker says, with something akin to begrudging admiration. “We respect this; she is disciplined with body and mind. She thinks. She reads books we provide. She writes on walls.”

“She…”

“There is chalk. We do not discourage self-improvement through intelligent reasoning.”

“Clearly.”

“She attempted to leave prison facility shortly after arriving-”

“How?”

“With jewellery; I do not know your word. It goes through ear. She was digging at walls with it. We confiscated item as contraband.”

“I see,” she nods sagely. “Have you considered a shower?”

“Shower?” the speaker echoes, the concept clearly unfamiliar. “She will not enter showers. She will not touch water to wash.”

“I might have an idea…”

* * *

The Doctor is minding her own business when the door of her cell slams open one afternoon – well, approximately afternoon… it’s hard to tell in here, with no sun to measure the passage of time; she’s been offered, and declined, lunch, so she’s fairly sure it’s afternoon – and reveals a Judoon standing in the corridor outside.

This is not, in itself, unusual. Her jailers sometimes pay her surprise visits, often to check she isn’t trying to tunnel through the concrete with sharpened plastic spoons – she’d given up that endeavour after only a few hours; much too effortful – or to offer her a new book, but she’s only a couple of chapters into her current one, so it can’t be that.

“You have visitor,” the Judoon barks in clipped English, which surprises her; she’s been practicing her Judoonese and she’d thought she’d been doing alright. Maybe she’d accidentally insulted someone’s mother when she’d politely declined lunch. Whoops.

More surprising than the choice of language is the fact that she has a visitor. For the last fifteen months, one week, four days and about six hours, she hasn’t had so much as a postcard or a care package or a paper aeroplane. Admittedly, nobody knows she’s here, but she thinks that’s a weak sort of excuse really; surely someone must be missing her, and surely the Interstellar Postal Service have got her redirect notice by now? Assuming the Judoon haven’t shredded it, of course, which is a very big assumption; perhaps life sentences mean you forfeit your right to post. And, she’d thought, visitors; until now, apparently.

She wonders idly who it might be. It’s got to be someone with interstellar transport, which rules out Ryan, Graham and Yaz – unless the TARDIS has taken it upon herself to bring them to visit, and managed to smash through the Judoon forcefields, which seems unlikely – as well as most of her human friends, including UNIT. It could be Jack, she supposes; the prospect is briefly cheering, but then again, a polite visitation isn’t really his style; he’s more of the daring prison break type, and this isn’t a daring prison break if it comes with an announcement.

Fine, the Master, perhaps; she has little doubt he’s found a way to survive Gallifrey and she swears to herself at the mere thought of him. The conniving little…

“Visitor have request.”

The Doctor is jolted out of her train of thought; she looks up at the Judoon, wondering what the request might be, and it’s then that she notices the large hose he’s holding in one hand. She feels the beginnings of a sneaking suspicion, but before she can so much as gather her thoughts, the hose is activated, sending a powerful blast of freezing cold water jetting across the cell towards her and pinning her to the wall with its force.

It’s icy.

It hurts.

It’s shockingly overwhelming on her senses.

Instinctively, she hisses like a cornered animal, but that seems to allow a lot of water into her lungs, and so she spits and splutters and swears silently in Gallifreyan instead, holding up her hands as though that might abate the water scouring her skin, hair and clothes. She becomes dimly aware of a second Judoon coming to stand beside the first, a weapon of some kind in his hands, and as he pumps the trigger, she braces, braces, braces –

Something raspberry scented and foamy hits her, and she almost laughs aloud as she realises it’s soap of some kind. Against her better judgement, she reaches for it, the lather soft and foamy and a welcome juxtaposition to the harsh, stinging sensation of the water against her skin, and she’s considering scooping some onto her greasy scalp when a large amount hits her squarely in the face and she yells as it burns her eyes.

Rubbing at her eyes to clear the bubbles from them, she runs her hands through her hair a few times with the soap residue before trying to open her stinging, smarting eyes against the flow of the water, and just as the pain starts to lessen, the hose is shut off. The Doctor slumps to the floor, exhausted and confused and shivering, but smelling faintly of artificial fruit and wondering how the Master had known that this is the worst kind of torture they could inflict upon her. She steels herself for his inevitable gloating, but there’s nothing but the click of heels, and then…

“Hello sweetie,” a warmly familiar voice says. “Need a towel?”


End file.
